Chapter 14 Chapter Fourteen

"My dear lady," said Poirot, bowing deeply to Mrs. Oliver, and presenting an elegant Victorian bouquet. "Mr. Poirot! Oh, really, I'm too afraid to be so, and only you have such a demeanor. My flowers are always in a mess." She glanced at the messy bunch of chrysanthemums in the vase, and then looked at With this ladylike bouquet of rosebuds. "Thank you so much for coming to see me." "Ma'am, I'm here to wish you well." "Yes," said Mrs. Oliver, "I think I'm better." She turned her head a little cautiously from side to side. "It's still a headache, though," she said. "Sometimes it hurts a lot."

"You remember, ma'am, I warned you not to do dangerous things." "Actually, I was told not to be too reckless. It's a pity that I did that." She added: "I feel that something is wrong. I am also scared, but I tell myself why I am so stupid, what is the good Afraid? Because, I am in London, right in the center of London, and there are people everywhere. I mean—how could I be afraid, and it’s not in the deserted woods.” Poirot looked at her, thinking.Mrs. Oliver, he thought, had really felt an uneasy dread, a genuine suspicion of evil, a foreboding sense that something or someone was going to do her harm; or did she realize it later. The whole process?He was well aware that this was a regular occurrence: I don't know how many people who entrusted him with the case have said something like Mrs. Oliver's just said, "I knew then that something was wrong, I felt something was wrong, and I knew something was going to happen." Yes." In fact, they didn't feel that way at all.So what kind of person is Mrs. Oliver?

He looked at her from Mrs. Oliver's standpoint.According to Mrs. Oliver's own opinion, her intuition was quite reliable.One after another, Mrs. Oliver always had to be unreasonable every time those intuitions proved true! However, people, like many animals, like dogs and cats, always feel a little uneasy before a thunderstorm comes, knowing that something is wrong, but they can't tell what is wrong. "When did you feel this fear?" "It was when I turned out of the main road," said Mrs. Oliver. "Before that, it was normal and quite exciting--I thought it was a lot of fun, but of course found it difficult to follow people." It also discourages me."

She stopped and thought about it seriously. "It was like playing a game. Then, suddenly, it wasn't a game at all, because it was a place of alleys and run-down areas, warehouses or wastelands leveled out to build houses -- oops, I don't know. I know, I can't explain it, but it's different anyway, it's like a dream. You know that kind of dream. It started out as one thing, everyone had a great drink and then suddenly found myself in the jungle or somewhere else entirely - and very scary. " "The jungle?" said Poirot. "Well, that's an interesting comparison."

"So you felt as if you were in a jungle, and you were afraid of a peacock?" "I don't know if I'm particularly afraid of him, and the peacock is not a dangerous animal. It's just that I compare him to a peacock because I think he's just a decorative thing. Isn't the peacock rich in decoration and decoration? ? This hateful guy is quite colorful." "Were you completely unaware that someone was coming after you until you were attacked?" "No, no, not at all—but I think he's leading me the wrong way." Poirot nodded cautiously.

"But of course it was the peacock that knocked me on the head," said Mrs. Oliver. "Who else could it be? That little filthy boy? He's not a villain, though he's a filth. The lazy What’s the name of Yangyang’s Frances? It’s even more impossible—she looks like a packing box covered with a piece of cloth, with hair hanging all over her body. I think she looks like an actor or something.” "You said she was acting as a model?" "Yes, not for the peacock, but for the dirty boy. I don't remember you ever seeing her." "I haven't had the honor--if there is one at all."

"However, she is really pretty, the kind of slovenly, dashing artist type. She has a lot of make-up on her face, a gray face, heavy eye cream, and her hair hangs limply on her face. In a family gallery work, so it's not uncommon to model for some hippie painters. How dare these girls! I think she may be in love with the peacock, but maybe it's the dirty boy. Anyway, I don't think she will hit me with a sap." "I think there's another possibility, ma'am. Maybe someone might notice you're following David—and follow you accordingly." "Someone saw me stalking David and stalked me?"

"Otherwise, someone has already been hiding near the lumber factory or in the mine, perhaps watching the person you noticed." "It is a possibility, of course," said Mrs. Oliver; "but who would it be?" Poirot sighed dejectedly. "Oh, that's it. That's the difficulty--too much difficulty. Too many people, too much goings-on, and I can't make any sense out of it. All I know is a girl who said she might have murdered someone! I just It can be done on such a few clues, and even that is very difficult." "What do you mean by difficult?"

"Thinking back," said Poirot. Mrs. Oliver had never been very good at recalling. "You're always confusing me," she complained. "I'm talking about someone being murdered, but who was murdered?" "I think the stepmother was murdered." "But the stepmother was not murdered," said Poirot. "You are the most nervous fellow," said Mrs. Oliver. Poirot straightened himself in his chair, joined the fingers of his hands, and began—as Mrs. Oliver surmised—to have fun. "You just refuse to think back," he said, "but we have to go back and think if we're going to make any progress."

"I don't want to think about it. I just want to know what you did when I was in the hospital. You should have done something. What did you do?" Poirot ignored her question. "We had to start over, and one day you called me. I was very upset, yes, I admit I was, and someone said something to me that hurt my self-esteem. You, madam, were very kind. You cheered me up, put me at ease, and bought me a cup of hot chocolate. Not to mention, you offered to help me, and you did. You brought that to me and said she The girl who probably did the murder found it for me! Madame, let us ask ourselves what is the murder? Who was murdered? Where was it murdered? And why was it murdered?"

"Well, stop," said Mrs. Oliver; "my head hurts again from your noise, and it's not good for me." Poirot still ignored her entreaties. "Have we had a murder at all? You say that the stepmother was murdered. My answer is that the stepmother is not dead, so we haven't murdered. However, there must have been a murder. So I, myself, first ask The thing is, who the hell is dead? Someone came to me about a murder. A murder happened somewhere, and I couldn't find it. I know, you want to say someone tried to murder Mary Isn't it good proof, Resderick? But that doesn't satisfy Hercule Poirot." "I really don't know what you want," said Mrs. Oliver. "I want a murder," said Hercule Poirot. "Don't you think your appetite is too cruel?" "I'm looking for murder and can't find it. It's frightening—so I ask you to reflect with me." "I have a good idea," said Mrs. Oliver. "Perhaps Andrew Restarike was in such a hurry to go to South Africa that he killed his wife before he left. Did it ever occur to you?" "Of course I wouldn't think of such a thing," said Poirot sullenly. "Well, it occurred to me," said Mrs. Oliver. "I find it quite touching. He's in love with another woman, and is so anxious to elope with her that he murders his ex-wife, and no one suspects him." Poirot sighed in exasperation. "But his wife died eleven or two years after he went to South Africa, and his children don't know much about their mother being murdered at the age of five." "Maybe she gave her mother the wrong medicine, or maybe Resderick just said she died. We don't really know if she really died." "I know," said Hercule Poirot. "I've looked into it. The first Mrs. Reslick died April fourteenth, 1963." "How do you know these things?" "Because I have hired people to investigate some facts. I beg you, ma'am, don't jump to improbable conclusions." "I think I'm quite tactful," said Mrs. Oliver obstinately; "if I had written a book, I would have arranged it. And I would have let the child do it. Not on purpose, but her father called her Mother drinks a cup of pressed tree sap." "Nonsense!" said Poirot. "Well," said Mrs. Oliver, "tell your story, then." "My God, I have nothing to say. I'm looking for a murder and I can't find it." "Mary Resdeclair was sick, went to the hospital, came home sick again, and if someone looked for it, they might find the poison that Norma Resdeclair got, so you still No murders were found!" "That's true as far as everyone knows." "Then, my Monsieur Poirot, what are you looking for?" "I ask you to pay attention to the meaning of the language. The girl said exactly the same thing to me as she said to George my manservant. Neither time did she say 'I want to kill someone,' or 'I want to kill my stepmother. ’ Both times she said what had been done, what had happened.Definitely something that happened, in the past tense. " "Well, I admit defeat," said Mrs. Oliver. "You wouldn't believe that Norma Restarick wanted to kill her stepmother anyway." "Yes, I believe it's quite possible that Norma may have killed her stepmother. I think in her mind it may have been that way, because her mind was nearly insane. But it's not proven. Anyone, please Don't forget, there's some poison hidden in Norma's stuff, maybe even the husband put it." "You always think it must be the husband who murders the wife," said Mrs. Oliver. "Usually the husband is the most likely man," said Hercule Poirot, "so he should be considered first. It might be the girl, Norma, or a servant, or perhaps the caretaker." Sir's secretary, or that old Sir Roderick. Or perhaps Mrs. Restarick herself." "Ridiculous! Why is she?" "There's always a reason. Outrageous reasons, maybe, but never totally unbelievable." "Really, Mr. Poirot, you can't doubt anyone, can you?" "Of course, that's exactly what I do. I doubt everyone, first doubt, and then find reasons." "Then why doubt the poor foreign lady?" "It probably depends on what job she has at home, why she came to England, and many other reasons." "You're a little nervous." "Maybe it's that kid David, your peacock." "It's outrageous, David wasn't there. He never visited their house at all." "Oh, yes. He was strolling in the corridor the day I went." "It's not going to put poison in Norma's room." "How do you know?" "Because she is in love with that bad boy." "I admit that there is such a thing on the surface." "You complicate everything," complained Mrs. Oliver. "I didn't. Things were making it difficult for me. I needed some background facts, and there was only one person who could give me them, and she disappeared." "You mean Norma?" "Yes, I mean Norma." "But she is not missing, you and I have found her." "She went out of the dining room and disappeared again." "You let her go?" Mrs. Oliver's voice trembled with anger. "God!" "You just let her slip away? You didn't even look for her again?" "I didn't say I wanted to go to her." "But you have had no success until now. I am so disappointed in you, Mr. Poirot." "There is already an outline," Hercule Poirot said almost dreamily, "yes, there is already a final shape. However, due to the lack of one factor, this model does not make sense.You should understand this, right? " "I don't understand," said Mrs. Oliver, already aching in the head. Whether Mrs. Oliver was listening or not, Poirot kept on talking.She was quite angry, thinking that the daughter of the Resderick family had spoken well, and that Poirot was indeed too old!Originally, she found the girl for him herself, and called him immediately so that he could arrive immediately; she went to track down the other half of the couple.She gave the girl to Poirot, and what happened—Poirot lost her again!In fact, she could not see that Poirot had done anything useful throughout the whole affair.She was really disappointed.When he stopped talking, she must tell him that again. Poirot, on the other hand, was softly and methodically describing the outlines of what he called "models." "It's interlocking. Yes, it's all the more difficult because it's interlocking. One thing is related to another, and then it's found to be related to other things that seem to be outside the pattern. But not within the pattern." In addition, more suspicious characters have been brought in. What is suspicious? We don’t know. Let’s talk about this girl first. In a mess of contradictory patterns, I have to find the answer to answer the most Tricky question. Is this girl a victim? Is she in danger? Or is she really cunning? Is this girl trying to create the impression she wants for something of her own? Both are possible. I need a stabilizing factor, some solid hint, which I know must be there, must be hidden somewhere." Mrs. Oliver was searching her bag. "I don't know why I can't find an aspirin when I need it," she said grimly. "We can see a set of interconnected relationships. The father, the daughter and the stepmother. Their lives are connected. Something to do with the befuddled old uncle they lived with.She worked for him and was wonderful in appearance and manner.He likes her very much. Let's just say he's a bit crazy about her.But what is her status in their family? " "I suppose they want to learn English," said Mrs. Oliver. "She met with a member of the Herzogovia embassy at the National Arboretum. They just met there, didn't speak to each other, and she left a book, and he took—" "What are you talking about?" "Is this connected to some other pattern? We don't know yet. It seems impossible but not necessarily impossible. Did Mary Resdrick ever happen to see some documents that might pose a danger to the girl?" " "Are you telling me it has something to do with espionage again?" "I'm not telling you, I'm just guessing." "You said yourself that Sir Roderick was a fool." "It wasn't a question of whether he was a douchebag. He was a man of some importance during World War II. He had a lot of important papers in his hands, he had important letters. Many of the letters lost their importance at the time. , he can still keep it as he likes.” "The war you're talking about was eight hundred years ago." "True, but the past is not erased by the age. New alliances are born in the world. Public speeches frequently refute this, deny that, and spread all kinds of lies here and there.Assuming there are still some letters or documents that may change certain characters, you understand that I'm not telling you anything, I'm just making assumptions.These assumptions, as far as I know, have been true in the past.There may be very serious reasons why these letters or documents should be destroyed, or else they will find their way into the hands of foreign governments.There is no better person for the job than a pretty young lady who looks after and assists an elderly Sir in the collection and writing of his memoirs.Everyone is writing memoirs these days.No one can stop them.Suppose, on the day when it was the turn of the nurse and secretary to cook, the stepmother ate a little poison in her food?Suppose, that lady wants to put the blame on Norma? " "You've got the most out of your head," said Mrs. Oliver. "It's pretty crooked in my opinion. I mean, none of these things could have happened." "That's right. There are too many models, but which one is correct? That girl, Norma, left home and went to London. As you told me, she shared a house with two other girls." The third girl in the building. In this way, we have another pattern. The two girls were strangers to her, but what happened? Father's private secretary. So another loop. Is this just a coincidence? Or is there some other pattern behind it? According to you, the other girl who acted as the model is also related to what you call 'Peacock' The kid is very familiar, and the kid is in love with Norma. Another link. There are many more links. Like David, what role does this peacock play in this matter? Is he really In love with Norma? Looks like it is. Her parents are against it, just pointing out the naturalness and possibility of things." "It's a strange thing for Claudia Reese Holland to be Resderick's secretary," said Mrs. Oliver thoughtfully. "I should imagine that she seems to do everything with extraordinary efficiency. Maybe she pushed that woman down the seventh floor." Poirot turned slowly towards her. "What are you talking about?" he asked, "What are you talking about?" "In their apartment there was a woman—I don't even know her name, but she fell or jumped to her death from the seventh floor." Poirot's voice rose sternly. "You never told me." He asked scoldingly. Mrs. Oliver looked at him in amazement. "I don't know what you mean by that?" "What do I mean? I want you to tell me about a death, and that's what I mean. A death. And you say there's no death. You only know about attempted poisoning, when there was death A death that happened in—what is that place—?” "Borrowden Apartments." "Yes, yes, yes. When did that happen?" "The suicide? Or whatever? I think—er—I think it was about a week before I went to that apartment." "Excellent! How did you hear that?" "A milkman told me." "Milkman, really!" "He's just looking for something to talk to," said Mrs. Oliver. "It's miserable. In broad daylight—early morning, I think." "what is her name?" "How do I know? It seems he didn't say anything." "Young, middle-aged, or old lady?" Mrs. Oliver thought for a while, and said: "He didn't say it very accurately. I think he said he seemed to be fifty years old." "I was wondering if any of those three girls knew her?" "How do I know? I haven't heard anyone mention it again." "Why didn't you think of telling me?" "Why, really, Monsieur Poirot, what does it have to do with what we have in hand. Well, maybe it does—but no one mentions it, no one thinks of it." "But it does. It adds another link. This girl, Norma, lived in that apartment building, and one day someone committed suicide (which, I think, is the general view). It means that someone committed suicide The window on the seventh floor fell, or she jumped to her death. And then? A few days later, this girl named Norma, after asking you to talk about me at a reception, came to see me and said she was afraid that she might Murdered. Can't you see it? A death—and not a few days later, someone thought he might have murdered. Yes, it must have been the murder." Mrs. Oliver would have said "nonsense," but had not the guts, but that was what she had in mind. "Then, this must be the line of information that I haven't found yet. This line of information must be able to string the whole thing together! By the way, yes, I don't know how to string it together yet, but it will definitely be connected I have to think about it carefully, I have to think about it carefully. I have to go home and think about it until the point and the line can be combined—because this crucial line should be able to connect things clearly... Well, I finally found it. I can finally deduce it in the direction I want." He got up, said: "Good-bye, my dear lady," and hurried out.Mrs. Oliver breathed a sigh of relief at last. "Nonsense," she said, looking into the empty room, "absurd. I wonder if four aspirins is too much?"